Chapter 11: Jealousy, Day 9

July 9–10, 2020

It started with a coffee cup.

Susan had served Bob his morning coffee in the new black cup she had bought in Little Armenia the week before (hand-painted with tiny gold stars). Nawana noticed. Nawana always noticed.

By breakfast she was vibrating.

By noon she was slamming cabinet doors.

By 3:00 p.m. she was on the living-room rug in a full-on brat spiral: sarcastic “Yes, Captain” in a tone sharp enough to cut glass, rolling her eyes when Susan asked her to pass the olive oil, deliberately dropping a wooden spoon so it clattered loud sufficient to make Alicia flinch.

Bob watched it build the way an old sailor watches a storm front crawl across the horizon.

At 4:17 p.m., the storm broke.

Nawana “accidentally” knocked Susan’s favorite cezve off the counter. It hit the tile and shattered into a hundred copper pieces.

The kitchen went dead silent.

Susan’s eyes filled instantly. Alicia froze, hands over her mouth.

Bob set his coffee down deliberately.

“Nawana.”

She spun, chin high, curls wild, eyes blazing defiance and terror in equal measure.

“Basement. Now.”

She opened her mouth (probably to say something spectacularly self-destructive), then saw his face and thought better.

She marched downstairs like a condemned woman walking to the gallows with her head held high.

The rest of them followed ten minutes later.

The playroom lights were harsh white.

Nawana stood in the center of the rubber floor, arms crossed under her breasts, foot tapping.

Bob did not speak until the door at the top of the stairs clicked shut.